Advent Children: Valentine's Story
by Symphony's Feather
Summary: "Tseng and Elena . . . they were brought here half-dead. I did what I could to save them, but . . . well, we'll see." Basically Vincent's story on how he saved Tseng and Elena. Probably a two-shot.


**A/N: Hi. Feather here! Hope you enjoy~!**

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He's eating breakfast at 7th Heaven when it happens. It's early morning, so not many people are here. Most of them are together again, for once: Yuffie, Barret, Red XIII, Cait Sith, and himself. The ninja of the group is chattering excitedly at him, hands clutching a warm mug of coffee. Tifa's specialty, he knows. Cait Sith is trying to get a word in edgewise but failing, finally throwing his hands in the air in distress. Barret grins at him over his meal of home fries and biscuits and gravy, and Vincent suppresses a small, small smile under his cape.

Yuffie, completely oblivious, barrels on. ". . . so then, he was like, 'Where's my materia?' and I was all, 'I don't have it!' all innocent and stuff, y'know, but I really did have it, and his potions, too—"

"One order of extra chocolate chip pancakes, syrup on the side, coming up!" Tifa's call makes the Wutain stop short, then look up and around. She licks her lips as Tifa hands her breakfast over. "Yum! Thanks a ton, Teef! These look amazing!"

The bartender grins. "You're very welcome."

Red XIII looks alarmed at the stack of three gigantic, chocolate-filled flapjacks. "Are you sure it's safe to give her this much sugar in the morning?" he asks cautiously.

Tifa shrugs, nonchalant. "As long as she doesn't steal anything and pays me—_correctly_, I might add—"

The ninja rolls her eyes. "That was only one time!" she protests, mouth already full. "And it was only a few gil off."

"—_if_ she pays me correctly, then it's nothing to—"

The phone rings, and the soft noise of early morning customers gradually fades into something quieter.

". . . worry about," Tifa finishes slowly, frowning. "Sorry, guys. I need to take this." She walks to the bar, pushing back the swinging door that leads to the back of the counter, and picks up the phone. The small group of friends watches her. "Hello, 7th Heaven bar and restaurant?" she answers. There's a pause, and the martial artist says, "Yes . . . yes, this is she, but—no, of course not—who is this calling?" Another pause, and then Tifa goes so pale that she has to grip the edge of the bar for support. Barret stands up, but she shakes her head vehemently and waves him off. He sits down slowly, his eyes questioning Vincent, but the gunner doesn't say a word.

There is dead silence for a moment. Tifa leans over and hisses something into the phone, but stops short. Her hand on the bar clenches so tightly that Vincent's afraid it might break from the strength of her grip, but it relaxes as Tifa exhales tersely, her body tensed. "Fine," she snaps out loud. "But only a conversa—_you leave him out of this_! Look, you want me to get him or _not_?"

Apparently the person on the phone wants her to get "him"very much, because she takes another breath and sets down the phone carefully, like she's concentrating on not breaking it. Then she hurries over to their table.

Tifa beckons to him with a finger. "Vincent," she whispers. "There's someone on the phone who wants to talk to you."

He nods once and stands, pushing himself off his seat with the table. The whispers start up again as he slowly follows Tifa to the back counter.

"Is he that young lady's friend?"

"But he was sitting with all of them, right? Those friends of that hero person?"

"Looks like he's outta SOLDIER or somethin', the way he stands—"

"No, I think he's a former Turk, isn't he?"

"He's kinda creepy, with that long hair and those red eyes . . ."

"Is that a gauntlet? What the heck happened to his hand, ya think?"

"And look at his cape! Where do you get that color cloth?"

"Not Midgar, definitely not . . ."

He sighs inwardly. About half those whispers were lies; falsehoods heard on the streets from stories told time and time again; washed and wrung out and slapped onto the filth of the slums like a day-old newspaper. He knows Cait Sith is shaking his head sadly, Barret is glaring at the table, and Red XIII is staring at the ground woefully. Yuffie is probably fuming, a small shuriken in her hands right now; out of all of them, she's the one that talks to him most and that's known him the most, surprisingly. He knows how much she would love to yell at all of them that they were wrong, but she doesn't, and a small part of him, the one that he doesn't keep locked away all the time, is glad for that.

He picks up the phone. "Hello?"

"Ah, Vincent Valentine, is it not?" The voice that speaks is smooth and calm, and slightly familiar. He's immediately wary. "May I call you something shorter? Vinnie, perhaps?"

His eyes narrow. "No."

The voice chuckles. "Oh, I'm just joking. You only allow your Wutain friend to do that, right?"

"That's none of your concern. Who is this?"

Another bout of laughter. "I thought you'd know me by now, my friend! But then, you've only worked with my father, haven't you?"

The word _father_ suddenly jolts his memory, and he's suddenly aware of why Tifa turned pale and angry. "Rufus Shinra." He speaks the name with low contempt. "What do you want?"

"Now you've got me!" There's a pause, like he's musing over what to say. "'What do I want,' hmm . . . well, you see, there's been a small, ah, accident with two of my employees. Tseng and Elena, perhaps you know them?"

The names seem familiar, but he doesn't want to take his chances. "No."

"Mm. Anyway, it has come to my attention that you are a former Turk, from many years ago, yes?"

His jaw clenches. "Former," he says slowly, an edge to his voice.

"Well, former, new, what does it matter? The point is, I have heard about your skill, and I would like you to do some reconnaissance for me, if you will . . . I sent them out this morning on a small mission—dangerous, but small—and we seem to have lost contact with them. I've sent Reno with the chopper, but I do need someone on the ground to take care of it. My other Turk, Rude, needs to stay here to watch over things for me. Would you be willing—"

"No." He's held in the word all this time, but now he can't restrain himself. "Find someone else."

"Vincent, please, you must understand—"

"_No_," he says again, sharper, and Tifa looks at him. He shakes his head at her.

" . . . Mr. Valentine, I know that you don't like talking about this, but . . . well, if you don't take me up on this offer, then the end of the world could be near." There's a pause, and for the first time there's a strain in Rufus's unruffled voice. "_Sephiroth could come back, do you understand_?"

He's silent for a long time.

"Vincent?" the voice on the other end asks.

He's quiet for a moment more, then says, "Where?"

He hears a sigh of relief. "At the northern cave, near the ski lodge. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"Good, then they'll see you th—"

He hangs up before the man can finish. He stares at his gauntlet and flexes his hand, then looks up. Everyone is staring at him. No one says anything. Without saying goodbye, he walks towards the door and out.

As the bell jingles behind him, he hears the conversation start up again.

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**A/N: Dun dun DUH! The plot thickens . . . ! **

**Well, maybe not, but still. There's another chapter coming your way soon, my faithful readers (I hope).**

**See you soon, hopefully!**


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